


When I am Dead I Won't Join Their Ranks

by haunted_by_catholic_guilt



Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020 [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Depression, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Trans Martin Blackwood, i forgot the comfort, the lonely is here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haunted_by_catholic_guilt/pseuds/haunted_by_catholic_guilt
Summary: Has he always looked this tired?This empty?This broken?
Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894003
Kudos: 18





	When I am Dead I Won't Join Their Ranks

**Author's Note:**

> Sunday TMA H/C Week!
> 
> Prompts I Used- Messy Breakdown/Panic Attack
> 
> and thus the week comes to an end
> 
> TW: SELF HARM, ALCOHOL, DEPRESSION
> 
> also don't do what Martin does

Tim was gone.

Jon was in a coma.

His mum was dead.

He was alone.

It was late, he didn’t know the time, hadn’t gotten out of bed in three days, staring at the wall or sleeping, at this point he didn’t know the difference.

He needed to shower.

It took him three more hours for Martin to drag himself out of bed, and he then stood for fifteen long minutes in front of his bathroom mirror.

Has he always looked this tired?

This empty?

This broken?

The tears started suddenly, the reality of everything hitting him all at once, the reality of what had happened that he out of dealing with, the reality of what Elias had said.

He smashed the mirror with his fist, breaking the glass into a hundred pieces, his fist filled with small shards.

He sunk to the ground, sobbing and unable to breathe, a tight feeling around his chest that kept growing tighter, and it was then a voice screamed in his head that he had never gotten around to taking his binder off when he climbed into bed.

Shit.

He didn’t care, but that voice sounded strangely of Tim and he didn’t want to disappoint it.

He took off the dress shirt he had laid still in for three days, and finally took off his binder, his chest cracked as he wheezed his first full breath in that time, and he wasn’t surprised to look down and see rubbed off skin, red and inflamed with splotches of blood around his sides.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat on the floor of the bathroom, surrounded by glass and blood, the amount of it having been increased as he fell into his old habits.

He pushed himself off the floor, he needed to shower, but he was exhausted and couldn’t bring himself to do anything except put on an old t-shirt and gym shorts, and wander to the kitchen.

Photos of everyone, his mum and him when he was young, before she got too sick, photos of him, Jon, Tim and… what was not Sasha.

A single Polaroid sat next to the photos, of Tim, Jon, and a woman with dark skin, warm, bright eyes, and natural hair.

That was Sasha.

He remembered that the Polaroids didn’t change.

Not what was in the other photos, not a woman with olive skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair.

That wasn’t Sasha.

Tim was smiling in a way he hadn’t smiled since before Prentiss in the photos, his arm slung around his friend's shoulders, one photo had Jon in a fireman’s carry over Tim’s shoulder.

Jon looked exhausted, he always had, but his skin was free of the small round scars, and the bags under his eyes weren’t quite so deep, his hair had less grey in it, and in most of the photos, he was smiling, or at least visibly trying not to.

Martin then looked at himself, he didn’t see much of a difference, he still saw what he hated.

Martin grabbed a photo of him and Sasha, not Sasha- it wasn’t her. 

He grabbed the photo, it was in a cheap frame, and he slammed it on the ground, seeing the fake wood break and the glass shatter.

He grabbed another.

This one of Jon and Tim, both gone.

Both dead.

He smashed it, one after another, after another.

He couldn’t stop himself, he fell to his knees, the glass digging into his skin and he sobbed.

He couldn’t breathe, and he had no one to call, no one to turn to.

He was alone.

But hadn’t he always been?

Even before the institute, during school, he was too fat, too nerdy, too whatever, for anyone to like him, and he had to take care of his mum, he didn’t have time for people.

That’s how it was his whole life, and his job at the institute was no different until he got transferred and his mum moved into the care facility, and then he was alone, Tim and Sasha could care less about him, and Jon hated him.

He was well and truly alone, but had to endure the constant presence of others and their fake care.

He felt the least alone when he was trapped in his flat by Jane Prentiss and her worms, at least they tried to reach him.

They had thought he was ill, very ill, for two weeks, and they didn’t even think to call or to stop by to make sure he hadn’t died of dehydration.

His body filled with rage, he had always taken of them, whenever Jon overworked himself, no matter how much he yelled at him or told him he was useless, Martin still helped him, whenever Tim gave himself a migraine trying to wear his hearing aids or was hungover from drinking, he was there making sure he drank enough water and took his meds, and when Sasha’s cramps got so bad she couldn’t move, he was the one who had gotten the hot water bottles and anything else she needed.

He knew he didn’t deserve to be taken care of, his mum made that clear, but two weeks of nothing hurt a little bit. 

They had of course taken care of him afterward, or tried to as much as he would let them, but something about it stung him, and he kept it buried deep inside of him, until now.

He crawled over to his liquor cabinet, hardly ever used and stocked lightly with cheap whiskey and vodka for bad nights, he grabbed the unopened bottle, and drank it all, the night only beginning.

On the counter, alone Polaroid sat, undisturbed save for the blood on the corner.

**Author's Note:**

> find my tumblr at haunted-by-catholic-guilt
> 
> I forgot the comfort and wrote this on no sleep


End file.
